When  Good  Men  Meet 
As  Foe  to  Foe 


When  Good  Men  Meet 
As  Foe  to  Foe 


ij-u       yf}A^y\^r^- 


'^-O-^-cL. 


WRITTEN    IN    GERMANY 


BOSTON  : 

The  Southgate  Press 


Copyright,    191 6,   by  M.    E.    Blood 


Germany,  England,  Russia,   and  France, — 
As  students  In  their  schools,  perchance, 
We  have  these  distant  countries  seen. 
As  strollers  through  their  byways  green 
We've  learned  to  like  their  mountains  tall, 
Their  lakes  and  cities  and  peoples  all; 
And  when  we  like  them  all  so  well. 
More  sincerely  than  we  can  tell. 
We  find  it  hard  to  understand 
Why  the  one  should  hate  the  other  land. 


52Ui2G 


THE  WAR   DECLARATION 

Franziska  is  playing  at  dolls 
In  her  home  in  Munich  town; 
She  hears  in  the  street  below 
A  rat-a-tat  up  and  down. 

From  the  open  window  she  sees 
A  soldier  in  blue  and  red, 
With  a  drum  before  him  hung 
And  a  helmet  on  his  head. 

She  runs  to  her  mother  and  cries, 
"  Oh,  mother,  quickly  come. 
There's  a  crowd  of  men  outside 
And  a  soldier  with  a  drum." 

The  face  of  the  mother  turns  pale; 
She  takes  her  child  by  the  hand; 
They  go  the  stairway  down 
To  where  the  people  stand. 

The  soldier  ceases  to  drum. 
The  men  are  still  as  the  dead, 
While,  by  the  Kominissar, 
The  war  declaration  is  read. 

"  Dear  mother,  what  does  it  mean, 
And  why  do  you  hide  your  eyes?" 
"  Come  play  with  your  blocks  and  dolls," 
The  weeping  mother  replies. 

August  1,  1914. 


IN  MUNICH,  AUGUST,   19 14 

I  stood  with  the  people  in  the  street. 
As  the  war  declaration  was  read, 
And  saw  the  faces  of  mothers  and  wives 
Grow  deathly  pale  with  pain  and  dread. 

I  saw  the  public  automobiles 
All  filled  with  soldiers  riding  free 
To  their  affairs,  or  taking  once  more 
A  pleasure  drive,  as  it  might  be. 

I  saw  the  handkerchiefs  wildly  waved. 
And  children  hang  over  balcony  bars, 
And  girls  and  gray-haired  men  bring  out 
Bouquets  and  boxes  of  cigars. 

I  saw  the  guards  by  the  station  gates. 
And  heard  the  wistful  farewell  cheers 
Of  the  departing  soldier  boys. 
The  while  my  eyes  ran  over  with  tears. 

I  thought  of  all  the  good  and  brave 
Who  must  perish  in  the  fearful  game. 
And  my  soul  cried  out  in  agony, 
Oh,  who  —  who  —  who  is  to  blame  ! 


FROM    A    BAVARIAN    CONVENT 

Green  grows  the  grass  on  the  Traunstein  hills, 
The  cool  winds  breathe  through  the  fir  trees  tall, 
While  August's  sun  gilds  the  convent  roof. 
And  peaches  redden  on  its  wall. 

Below,  in  the  vale,  by  the  bridge  of  stone. 
Where  the  railway  line  goes  over  the  Traun, 
Flash  bayonets  in  the  blue  white  light. 
As  the  kingdom's  guards  walk  up  and  down. 

From  Rosenheim  comes  the  Salzburg  train. 
It  threads  the  lovely  landscape  through, 
When  near  the  town,  with  wonted  larum, 
Our  rural  calm  it  breaks  anew. 

And  now  another  sound  is  heard. 
More  fearsome  than  the  whistle  keen, 
As  Tyrol's  mustering  soldier  boys 
Far  out  from  the  wagon  windows  lean. 

With  shining  needles  shaping  socks. 
In  the  convent  garden  the  sisters  sit; 
Their  brothers  are  they  know  not  where, — 
With  anguished  hearts  they  pray  as  they  knit. 

August,  1914. 


4 


THE   MUSTERING  OF  THE  HORSES 

Through  spruces  and  firs,  and  grass  and  grain, 
By  the  mountain  road  and  the  river  way, 
The  loyal  Bavarian  peasants  lead 
Their  horses  into  the  town  to-day. 

The  four  to  ten  years  old  they  bring, 
In  response  to  the  startled  country's  call; 
The  tall  and  strong  and  handsomest, — 
Four  hundred  horses  there  are  in  all. 

The  peasants  say,  "  Our  boys  have  gone. 
And  now  our  horses  too  must  go  — 
My  Schwalbe  and  my  Fuchs,  good-by! 
Good-by  my  Rapp,  good-by  Rassco !  " 

Traunstein,  August  5,  1914. 


THE   WEDDING   RING 

Wee  Willy  kissed  his  mother's  hand, 
As  children  do  in  the  German  land. 
"Dear  mother,  where  is  your  ring  of  gold?" 
He  asked,  "And  why  is  your  hand  so  cold?" 

The  mother  took  her  boy  on  her  knee, 
Her  face  was  sad  as  sad  could  be, 
"  My  child,"  she  said,  "  you  innocent  thing, 
For  our  country's  need  I  have  given  my  ring." 

"  But,  mother,  what  will  father  say. 
Now  you  have  given  your  ring  away? 
I  truly  think  that  coin  instead 
Would  have  been  better,"  Willy  said. 

The  mother  stroked  the  golden  hair. 
And  looked  in  those  eyes  of  beauty  rare. 
"Your  father  must  go  to  the  war,"  she  said, 
"And  we  shall  need  that  coin  for  bread." 


THE  LIST  OF  THE  DEAD 

'Twas  a  sunny  day,  a  month  ago, 
That  the  regiment  marched  away; 

And  all  about  the  town  there  waved 
Long  flags  and  garlands  gay. 

Do  you  remember  how  Hans  looked? 

'Twas  only  a  month  ago  — 
He  wore  a  helmet  and  a  sword  — 

Hans  was  my  brother,  you  know. 

I  thought  it  fine  a  soldier  to  be; 

I  wished  I  too  were  a  boy. 
I  thought  to  march  away  to  the  war 

Would  give  me  boundless  joy. 

Hans  laughed  aloud  when  I  said  it. 

'Twas  only  a  month  ago, — 
He  tossed  me  aloft  in  his  arms  — 

Hans  was  my  brother,  you  know. 

He  said,  "You  are  a  golden  child," 

And  patted  me  on  the  head. 
And  now  —  I'll  never  see  him  again  — 

Hans's  name's  in  the  List  of  the  Dead. 


MID  -  SEPTEMBER 

We  hear  no  more  that  farewell  cry 

From  military  trains. 
The  little  mountain  town  lies  still 

Beneath  the  autumn  rains. 

Unwatched  is  now  the  bridge  of  stone; 

No  guard  now  stands  before 
The  red  brick  railway  station  gates; 

Of  spies  one  speaks  no  more. 

The  farmwife  brings  the  milk  to  town, 
The  baker  kneads  the  dough, 

Potatoes,  beef,  and  beer  are  sold, 
To  school  the  children  go. 

But  in  the  shops  the  old  and  lame 
Must  serve  as  best  they  may; 

No  patrons  to  the  drapers  come  — 
They  cannot  sell,  they  say. 

The  "  English  Spoken,"  printed  large 
On  the  hotel  terrace  screen. 

Since  August  blotted  out  has  been. 
And  painted  over  green. 

The  bookman's  window  glass  is  hung 

With  picture  postal  cards 
Of  princes,  kings,  and  generals. 

And  field-gray  coated  guards. 


The  war  news  telegrams  are  nailed 

To  walls  or  trunks  of  trees, 
That  rich  and  poor  alike  may  read 

Indifferent  to  fees. 

On  the  church  door,  framed  in  oak  and  crepe 

And  Bavaria's  blue  and  white. 
Stands  the  name  and  age  of  the  townsman  brave, 

Last  fallen  in  the  fight. 

His  photograph  in  uniform 

Is  above  the  wreath  of  oak. 
He  lightly  smiles,  as  though  to  be 

A  soldier    were  a  joke. 

And  we  who  see  that  smile  must  turn 

In  agony  away, 
Imagining  that  boy  as  on 

The  battlefield  he  lay. 

Traunstein,  1914. 


THE   FIRST   WOUNDED 

In  the  warmth  of  early  afternoon, 

Before  the  station  gates, 
The  coming  of  the  Munich  train 

A  crowd  expectant  waits. 

I  wonder,  as  the  train  draws  in, 
How  the  people  will  behave 

At  sight  of  the  soldier  invalids. 
The  first  of  their  wounded  brave. 

At  the  wagon  windows  stand  the  men, 

A  score  or  more  perhaps. 
All  in  brass-buttoned  uniforms 

And  jaunty  little  caps. 

The  Red  Cross  workers  help  them  down  - 
They  take  them  by  the  hand, 

And  lead  them  tenderly  to  where 
The  automobiles  stand. 

The  people  gaze  with  spell-bound  eyes 

And  not  a  word  to  say  — 
It  is  as  still  as  in  the  church 

On  a  holy  Sabbath  day. 


lO 


The  automobiles  soon  are  filled 
With  three  soldiers  on  a  seat, 

And  the  doctors  tuck  the  blankets  in 
About  their  patients'  feet. 

The  people  do  not  wave   and  cheer 
They  are  too  dazed  to  weep. 

I  feel  the  deep  significance 

Of  the  silence  that  they  keep. 

A  score  of  slightly  wounded  men 
Have  made  all  understand, 

As  they  have  not  before  conceived, 
That  war  is  in  the  land. 

Traunstein,  September  25,  1914. 


II 


THE    COMING    OF    THE  PRISONERS 

Though  hills  and  valleys  still  are  green, 
With  snow  the  Alps  are  white. 

At  set  of  sun  their  rosy  peaks 
The  children's   eyes   delight. 

But  on  their  loveliness  to-night 

The  children  think  ho  more, 
While  in  a  serried  crowd  they  wait 

The  old  salt  works  before. 

Tiptoeing  high,  agog  they  gaze, 

As  curious  children  do. 
"  They  come !  "  one  cries,  as  round  the  bend 

A  train  swings  into  view. 

Adown  the  rusty  railway  lines. 

Unused  for  many  a  day. 
To  where  the  expectant  crowd  begins 

It  slowly  makes  its  way. 

Anon  it  halts,  and  soon  we  see 

A  row  of  bayonets 
Flare  in  the  glory  from  the  sky 

Where  the  sun  in  splendor  sets. 

The  murmur  of  the  crowd  is  hushed. 

We  hear  the  stern  command, 
"  Fall  back!   Fall  back!  "   The  train  moves  on, 

And  comes  again  to  stand. 


12 


The  passengers  to  earth  get  down, 

A  motley  company, 
French,  English,   Russian,   Servian  — 

Two  hundred  there  may  be. 

Old  men  and  young  with  downcast  eyes, 
Or  straight-out  glances   bold. 

And  with  them  boys  that  seem  not  more 
Than  ten  or  twelve  years  old. 

And  some  are  trimly,  finely  dressed. 

And  carry  tourist  bags, 
While  others,  who  no  luggage  have. 

Wear  rough  clothes  worn  to  rags. 

Into  the  old  salt  works  they  go. 

These  prisoners  of  war. 
'Tis  strange  to  think  that  all  alike 

Must  sleep  on  sacks  of  straw. 

'Tis  sad  to  think  that  women  too, 
And  children  not  half  grown, 

Are  taken  from  their  homes  to  be 
Into  such  prisons  thrown. 

And  stranger,  sadder  still  to  know 
That  to  sleep  on  sacks  of  straw 

Is  but  a  trifling  incident 
In  this   revolting  war. 

Traunstein,  September  25,  1914. 


13 


MID  -  OCTOBER 

FROM  THE  WARTBERGHOHE 

With  golden  beeches  and  purple  oaks 

The  vale  below  is  decked. 
The  Sontagshorn  and  Reifelberg 

With  early  snows  are  flecked. 

The  calm  of  Nature's  harvest-time 
Lies  on  the  Traunstein  farms. 

My  spirit  too  would  quiet  find, 
And   rest   from   its   alarms. 

But  how  can  I  the  scene  enjoy 

While  war  is  in  the  land, 
And  a  hospital  and  prison  are 

In  view  on  either  hand? 

The  hospital  is  fair  to  see 

As  it  rises  from  the  hill; 
But  day  by  day  the  wounded  come, 

Its  snow-white  beds  to  fill. 

One  must  in  agony  recoil 

At  the  tales  of  war  they  tell, 

And  weep  to  know  they  must  go  back 
As  soon  as  they  are  well. 

In  the  shabby  suburb,  called  the  Au, 
In  the  middle  of  the  vale, 

I  see  the  ugly  chimney  tall 
Of  a  temporary  jail. 

Young  men  from  universities, 
Old  men  with  whitened  hair. 

Professionals,  and  laborers. 
And  little  boys  are  there. 


14 


Ten  thousand  hands  are  reached  to  help 

The  wounded  on  the  hill; 
But  who  war  prisoners  to  help 

Has  courage,  heart,  and  will? 

To  a  wandering  American 

The  rulers  it  allow. 
Down  from  the  Wartberg  height  I  go 

To  the  prisoners  in  the  Au. 

Traunstein,  1914. 


LOVE   TRIUMPHANT 

I  went  to-day  to  the  Traunstein  shops, 
To  buy  my  boy  war  prisoners  tops. 
As  I  entered  the  toy-shop  in  the  square, 
The  girl  who  served  was  in  a  flare. 
She  said,  "  From  morn  till  evening  late  — 
From  first  to  last  our  foes  I  hate." 
"  I'd  like  to  see  some  tops,"   I  said. 
Surprised  she  quickly  turned  her  head. 
"  'Tis  early  Christmas  gifts  to  buy." 
She  took  a  box  from  a  shelf  on  high. 
"  I  buy  for  prisoners  in  the  Au. 
To  me  the  war  rules  this  allow," 
I  answered,  not  at  all  afraid, 
As  she  three  tops  on  the  counter  laid. 
"But  are  there  boys  in  the  prison,  then?" 
"Oh,  yes,"  I  answered,  "there  are  ten  — 
One  little  Pole  and  several  French." 
She  groped  a  moment  under  a  bench. 
Then  handed  me  two  games  for  boys. 
"  The  older  boys  won't  care  for  toys," 
She  said.     "  Don't  tell  it,  if  you  please. 
But  I  should  like  to  send  them  these." 

October  17,  1914. 

15 


NIGHTS    WHEN    I    CANNOT    SLEEP 

I  smell  the  pears  that  grow  on  the  wall, 
And  the  fragrance  from  the  balsams  tall. 
It  is  so  still  in  the  villa  old 
That  I  hear  the  floors  contract  in  the  cold. 
The  bright  stars  through  my  windows  peep, 
These  autumn  nights  when  I  cannot  sleep. 

Or  the  wind  blows  up  and  the  curtain  flaps, 
While  a  pear  tree  branch  on  my  window  raps. 
The  frozen  rain  tumultuous  falls, 
From  north  and  west  the  thunder  calls. 
The  lightning  glares  in  the  darkness  deep. 
These  autumn  nights  when  I  cannot  sleep. 

I  think  of  prisoners  of  war. 

Awake   on   their  huddled   sacks   of  straw. 

Of  wounded  men,  as  in  pain  they  rave. 

Of  boys  already  in  the  grave; 

My  eyes  are  dry  though  I  fain  would  weep. 

These  autumn  nights  when  I  cannot  sleep. 

I  think  of  soldiers  out  in  the  field, 
Who  must  at  dawn  their  strong  lives  yield. 
The  sons,  and  brothers,  and  husbands  good 
Of  Europe's  sorrowing  womanhood. 
With  me  wan  faces  vigil  keep. 
These  autumn  nights  when  I  cannot  sleep. 

I  think  and  think,  while  my  pulses  pound. 
Till  I  hear  below  a  familiar  sound, 
And  the  reckless  pace  of  my  pulses  wild 
Is  soothed  by  the  cry  of  a  little  child, 
And  tears  from  under  my  eyelids  creep, 
These  autumn  nights  when  I  cannot  sleep. 

Villa  Sankt  Josef,  Traunstein,  October,  1914. 

i6 


THE  MUSIC  PLAYED  ALONE 

Like  splendid  pictures  in  gold  frames, 

At  breaking  of  the  day, 
Three  months  ago  the  soldiers  marched 

To  the  battle  front  away. 

And  week  by  week,  with  aspect  bright. 
More  soldiers  —  more  and  more  — 

Have  singing  crossed  the  barracks'  court, 
And  passed  out  from  its  door. 

To-day  more  soldiers  went  away. 

With  flowers  on  their  caps, 
In  warm  gray  coats  and  polished  boots 

And  shining  knapsack  straps. 

With  holy  water  came  the  priest 
To  bless  them  from  on  high. 

And  friends  and  relatives  were  there 
To  say  to  them  good-by. 

But  when  all  should  in  chorus  sing 

A  song  of  the  Fatherland, 
Friends,   relatives,   and  soldiers  sobbed 

To  the  music  of  the  band. 

It  is  not  true  that  thinking  men 

Are  glad  to  fight  and  die, 
Except  they  clearly  understand 

A  righteous  reason  why. 

And  so,  in  the  barracks'  court  to-day. 

The  music  played  alone. 
And  tears  enough  were  shed  to  melt 

A  hundred  hearts  of  stone. 

Munich,  November  4,  1914. 
17 


MID-NOVEMBER 

The  town  is  like  a  fairy  realm, 

Now  winter  has  begun. 
With  silver,  gold,  and  diamonds, 

Its  roofs  gleam  in  the  sun. 

It  would  be  pleasant  to  be  here. 
Mid  the  forests  black  and  white, 

If  for  a  day  I  might  forget 
This  European  fight. 

But,  in  the  quiet  of  the  morn, 

I  hear  a  cannon  peal, 
And  know  a  soldier's  mass  is  said 

While  the  people  praying  kneel. 

And  when  I  go  outside,  I  meet 

Men  walking  two  by  two. 
Accompanied  by  soldier  guards 

In  coats  of  red  and  blue. 

The  men  wear  yellow  bands  tied  round 

Their  arms,  which  indicate 
That  to  be  prisoners  of  war 

Is  their  unhappy  fate. 

I  pass  young  women  wearing  crepe  — 
The  badge  of  grief  and  loss  — 

And  a  schoolboy  with  a  black  sleeve  band 
Embroidered  with  a  cross. 


i8 


On  either  side  St.  Oswald's  church, 

And  in  the  tree-set  square, 
I  see  the  peasants  round  the  booths 

Of  the  mid-November  fair. 

And  wounded  soldiers,  too,  are  there, 
All  dressed  in  gray  and  red. 

Some  lean  on  canes,  some  carry  slings; 
One  has  a  bandaged  head. 

That  one  who  walks,  as  he  is  led, 
By  the  hand  of  a  neighbor  kind, 

Home  from  the  battle  front  has  come 
Irreparably  blind. 

The  latest  war  post  picture  cards 
That  hang  to  right  and  left. 

Show  dying  men  and  heroes'  graves, 
And  wives  and  maids  bereft. 

And  now  grandfathers  shake  their  heads 
Above  the  lists  of  the  dead, 

And  mothers  tremble  when  the  report 
Of  a  victory  is  read. 

And  many  question  in  their  hearts, 

If  to  speak  out  they  fear, 
What  fate  is  waiting  at  the  end 

For  them  and  their  country  dear. 

Traunstein,  1914. 


19 


MID-DECEMBER 

A  mild  December's  here  to  help 

The  needy  on  their  way; 
The  sun,  the  sun,  the  blessed  sun, 

Shines  warmly  every  day! 

War  prisoners,  who  build  a  road, 

Pass  the  villa  garden  gate. 
With  easy  step  and  cheerful  talk. 

As  St.  Oswald's  clock  strikes  eight. 

The  sun  shines  on  the  hospital. 

And  makes  the  wounded  glad. 
It  gives  them  back  the  heart  and  hope 

That  as  recruits  they  had. 

It  brightens  up  the  iron  cross 

That  hangs  on  the  breast  of  one, 

Who,  for  the  love  of  Fatherland, 
A  valiant  deed  has  done. 

A  sunbeam  gilds  the  crucifix 

That  hangs  on  the  workroom  wall, 

Where  the  girls  of  the  convent  school  wind  yarn, 
One  gray  ball  after  ball. 

Instead  of  making  Christmas  gifts 

For  friends,  as  is  their  wont. 
They  all  are  knitting  scarfs  and  socks 

For  soldiers  at  the  front. 

And,  as  they  knit,  they  sadly  speak 

Of  Sister  Anna's  fate. 
The  Irish  teacher,  who  is  now 

Forbidden  by  the  State. 


20 


"  What  harm  could  Sister  Anna  do," 

Is  the  question  they  repeat, 
"  In  her  cloister  veil,  with  her  Irish  eyes, 

And  her  Irish  smile  so  sweet?" 

The  questions  deep  in  Anna's  heart 

Would  be  too  sad  to  say. 
So  she  lets  the  sun  dry  up  her  tears, 

As  convent  sisters  may. 

And  now  at  noon,  on  squares  and  shops. 

In  the  centre  of  the  town, 
With  thawing  warmth  and  splendent  light, 

The  blessed  sun  looks  down. 

It  sees,  in  every  window  piled. 
Post  packets,  small  and  great; 

Some  hold  cigars,  and  some  liqueurs. 
Or  fruit  and  chocolate. 

And  now  no  more  in  newspapers 

May  we  the  death  list  read; 
Instead  the  columns  long  are  filled 

With  talk  of  soldiers'  need. 

And  so  for  Christmas  in  the  field 

Good  folk  contribute  now, 
While  there's  only  one  in  the  town  to  think 

Of  prisoners  in  the  Au. 

Traunstein,  1914. 


21 


MID-JANUARY 

The  sleet  blows  wild  above  the  hills, 

But  rain  falls  in  the  town. 
The  mountain  tops  are  changeless  white, 

But  with  mud  the  streets  are  brown. 

The  Christmas  tree  is  in  the  yard. 

It  leans  against  the  shed. 
Where  Christmas  Eve  the  candles  shone 

The  raindrops  shine  instead. 

And  now  that  we  have  eaten  all 
The  toothsome  Christmas  cake, 

The  Ministerium  says  it  was 
A  shame  so  much  to  bake, 

And  that  all  black  bread  must  contain 

So  much  potato  meal. 
Frugality's  the  virtue  which 

Ensures  the  country's  weal. 

Benevolence  to  the  bereaved 

Is  also  widely  taught; 
And  still  we  read  that  gold  must  to 

The  empire's  bank  be  brought. 

And  where  in  August  days  we  found 

Exultant  martial  rhymes. 
Are  printed  now  pathetic  lays 

Of  these  iron-hearted  times. 

To  save  lamp  oil,  by  candle  light 

We  read  the  war  reports. 
The  night  grows  cold,  and  the  morrow  brings 

Fresh  snow  and  winter  sports. 


22 


But  the  older  boys  who  skied  and  slid 

In  mid-November's  cold 
Are  now,  as  mustering  recruits, 

In  Munich  town  enrolled. 

I   heard  their  high-pitched   farewell   cries 
Through  the  rain  of  yesterday, 

As  the  early  morning  Munich  train 
Pulled  from  the  town  away. 

They  go  to  take  the  place  of  men 
Who  have  perished  in  the  war, 

And  now  the  town  must  workers  from 
The  foreign  captives  draw. 

While  soldiers  with  bright  bayonets 

Walk  sluggish  up  and  down. 
The  hapless  Poles  destroy  a  dam 

By  the  swiftly  flowing  Traun. 

They  wheel  the  barrows  back  and  forth, 
Through  mud  or  snow  and  ice. 

To  be  prisoner  and  penniless 
Is  certainly  not  nice. 

But  'tis  less  sad  for  me  to  see 
Their  coats  so  worn  and  thin. 

Because  I  know  that  all  now  wear 
Warm  clothing  next  the  skin. 

In  a  shop  window  near  the  square 

War  spoils  their  story  tell. 
And  a  Frenchman's  gaiters,  cap,  and  sword 

Make  battles  seem  more  real. 

Traunstein,  1915 


23 


MID-FEBRUARY 

In  pearls  and  lace  and  filigree, 
On  hedges,  roofs,  and  trees, 

Now  February's  silver  fogs 
In  dreamy  beauty   freeze. 

The  little  birds  already  know 
That  spring  is  coming  soon. 

I  hear  them  chirping  cheerfully 
As  the  sun  shines  warm  at  noon. 

The  little  birds  find  only  joy 
In  the  lengthening  of  the  days. 

They  have  no  fear  of  deeper  plots 
And  wilder  war  affrays. 

They  do  not  weep  and  pray  for  men 

In  peril  on  the  sea. 
For  news  from  boys  in  trenches  cold, 

They  wait  not  anxiously. 

And  when  the  flags  are  all  displayed. 
And  bells   in  triumph   ring, 

The  little  birds  are  unconcerned; 
They  do  not  louder  sing. 

Oh,  how  I  bless  the  little  birds. 

The  little  winter  birds! 
In  Nature's  order  I  find  hope 

That's  far  beyond  my  words. 

Traunstein,  1915 


24 


MY  CROSS  OF  SALT 

A  soldier  in  the  prison  guard 
Brought  me  a  cross  to-day, 

That  he  from  salt  had  carved  with  care 
To  wile  the  hours  away. 

I  think  it  will  not  last  so  long 
As  a  cross  of  iron  tough; 

But  I  find  it  more  to  my  conceit 
Than  one  of  harder  stuff. 

It  minds  me  of  the  bitter  tears 
That  in  these  times  fall  fast, 

And  of  the  goodness  in  the  world 
That  must  prevail  at  last. 

An   iron   cross   the   Kaiser  gives 

To  those  he  would  exalt. 
A  soldier  gave  to  me  to-day 

A  cross  carved  out  of  salt. 

March  7,  1915. 


25 


MID-MARCH 

Sweet  flowers,  yellow,   red,  and  white, 

Blow  by  the  river-side, 
While  blossomed  pink  primroses  are 

The  town  seed  merchant's  pride. 

I  know  that  Easter's  almost  here 
By  the  nests  from  paper  made. 

And  the  sugar  eggs  and  chocolate  hares 
In  baker's  shops  displayed. 

Such  simple  sights  from  thoughts  of  war 

Bring  momentary  rest. 
And  then  my  heart  turns  sick  to  see 

Two  hares  as  soldiers  dressed. 

In  a  shop  window  stands  a  girl 

In  first  communion  gown. 
And  there's  a  hat  with  Hindenburg 

On  the  band  around  its  crown. 

And  everything  is  very  dear. 

The  worried  people  say; 
But  by  the  clothiers  men's  attire 

Is  almost  given  away. 

On  Max  Platz  now,  the  town  war  list 

Shows  many  fallen  dead. 
I  count  the  names  of  forty-six 

Inscribed  with  crosses  red. 

And  still  the  wounded  soldiers  walk 

About  the  streets  in  pairs. 
And  captive  men  play  chess  and  cards. 

Forgetting  thus  their  cares. 

The  war  is  long,  say  free  and  bound, 
With  feeling  deep  and  strong; 

In  letters  from  the  front  I  read, 
The  war,  it  is  so  long. 

Traunstein,  1915. 

26 


MID-APRIL 

With  dark  gray  clouds  and  chilly  winds, 
And  mud  and  drizzling  rain, 

And  creeping  fogs  and  driving  hail, 
The  winter's  back  again. 

The  cold,  dark  evenings  are  unkind. 
With  wood  and  oil  so  dear, 

My  spirit  fails  to  think  of  all 
The  misery  so  near. 

But  fair  hope's  tender  colors  gleam 

Beneath  a  film  of  snow, 
And  sunny,  golden  daffodils 

Bloom  bravely  in  a  row. 

And  hate  is  soft  with  sympathy. 

Toward  friendship  is  the  trend. 
It  was  a  blunder,  people  say. 

The  war  —  it  must  soon  end. 

Traunstein,  1915. 


27 


MID-MAY 

The  Munich  parks  are  pretty,  now 
That  May  makes  all  things  new, 

And  people  sit  or  walk  about 
As  they  are  wont  to  do. 

But  mid  gay  songs  and  fragrant  scents 

They   say  with   discontent. 
This  lovely  weather  does  not  fit 

A  world  with  sorrow  rent. 

And  for  her  love  of  Italy, 

That  artist  girl  in  white 
Has  sobbing  lain  awake,  throughout 

The  hours  of  a  night. 

The  papers  say  the  town  is  pleased 

The  Lusitania's  lost; 
But  friendly  greetings  are  as  dull 

As  flowers  touched  by  frost. 

And  a  girl  from  Bregenz  dares  to  say, 
"The  German  Kaiser's  mad; 

That  my  country  did  not  do  the  deed 
I'm  very,  very  glad." 

And  oh,  that  longing  deep  for  peace! 

And  oh,  that  question,  Why? 
One  can  do  nothing,  is  the  phrase 

That's  ended  with  a  sigh. 

Munich,  1915. 


28 


Not  so  much  honoring  the  brave, 
As  in  the  hope  that  I  might  show 
What  a  sad  and  terrible  thing  it  is 
When  good  men  meet  as  foe  to  foe. 


29 


520  n 


<  on 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LIBRARY 


